


Contact

by Cyber_Witch



Category: John Wick - Fandom
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Violence, shootout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 02:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11659503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyber_Witch/pseuds/Cyber_Witch
Summary: John can't be late to meet his Contact, but there is a complication.





	Contact

He slammed another cartridge.

Left temple. Center forehead. Right eye, was supposed to be center forehead but every possibility had to be accounted for, such as unexpected micro obstacles like the pitted spot in the concrete.

Left neck through trachea, heart, Right temple.

Every percussive pop was a body part, every bullet a life.

He waited out three beats behind the concrete pillar while the rest of the fodder scrambled to compensate. Not bad aims, just too slow. John checked his watch. Two minutes before the window closed. The attempt to run his Chevelle over the side of the bridge and into the Vltava river earlier had delayed him.

Now he needed to make up for it. Three more corpses ran into the parking garage, firing with automatics.

He did not have time for this.

His Contact in Prague would only be there at the stated time. They were very punctual, very specific, and very impatient.

John stopped wasting time, hit the charge on his frag grenade, and tossed it out from behind the pillar. He sank to his knees and shielded his head and face.

The blast sent chunks of bodies and masonry raining against the walls. He didn’t wait for the smoke to clear, he continued to the meeting place, checking his ammo.

No bullets in the H&K P30L. None in the Browning. None in the right Glock, but 4 more in the left.

He darted into the next area. Another corpse tried to nail him with an MP5K, so John threw the empty P30L with enough force that the corner of the grip cracked the front of his skull.

More corpses breathing their last moved to intercept. Center forehead. Left cheek. Jugular. One bullet left, 30 seconds.

The objective was straight ahead, all other obstacles were no longer a factor, John was actually going to be _early_.

He smiled.

He heard the whistle of a projectile a millisecond after he dodged it. He threw himself against the corner of the doorway into the garage lobby and his eyes fell on the throwing knife lodged two centimeters deep into the concrete floor a yard away.

Another factor, unaccounted for. John wasn’t smiling anymore. He double checked that last bullet, considered the direction the knife had come from.

He could make it.

John rolled into the lobby, fired one shot, flawless precision. The bullet’s report came back instantly with the sound of metal on metal.

It missed. No, how could it have? The target, standing in the open on the other end, 10, 12 meters max. John chanced a look, peering around the edge of the pillar. An answering whistle indicated the hair’s breadth by which the blade had missed his left cheek, and the weapon was now sunken in the wall in front of him.

He’d felt the wind from that one.

But in that split second, he’d also seen what happened to his last bullet. It had struck a knife, lying now on the floor between them.

John knew that it wasn’t chance, either. This walking dead man was proving to be a problem. Time was almost up, and he had no bullets.

“I know you have no bullets left, John,” a voice rang out, resounding deeply in the enclosed space. “And I know you have mere seconds before you miss your target. The question is, are you wise, or are you persistent?”

John growled. _He did not have time for this._

He unsheathed the Microtech UTX-70 from his boot as only a fool brought empty guns to a knife fight, and he went for the obstacle.

“Persistent,” the other man, in a perfectly tailored Boss 3-piece, said. His arms were a blur, and John dodged, almost too slow. The pair of dark, intense eyes had tripped him up. Who was this guy?

John rolled. Blade edge to the left achilles tendon -but no, the obstacle was too fast. John got the slam of knuckles in the side of the head, answered with a clip on the jaw and heel to the groin -too slow.

He rolled back, squatting on his heels, blade ready, to re-evaluate the obstacle. Bruising marked the corner of a square jaw, lips parted to breathe, and John was dizzied. Who _the fuck_ was this guy?

“You’re late, Wick,” said the serious brow and face like the facets of a stone carving. “You’ve failed.”

John spit the blood out of his mouth and glanced at his watch. Eleven seconds too late. Maybe the contact was still there… but no, the obstacle was right.

John met his foe’s gaze. He’d never faced someone with skills like this. He was more than just a henchman.

“That just means I have nothing to lose,” John said with a curl up his upper lip. He shot forward, point thrust for the soft under side of the other man’s chin. Swiped air instead.

He adjusted instantly, elbow thrust back to catch the obstacle in the gut. His target moved, carried John to the side. John twisted to switch the balance, and landed on top of the hard body. He pinned the other man’s wrist, knife point dimpling the delicate skin under a piercing right eye.

A pinpoint of pain registered in John’s side, just above the right kidney. A tip of a blade.

John froze, and both men met their opponent’s gaze, at an impasse. His pulse hummed in his ears, adrenaline sparking at every nerve ending.

“Who…” John started, eyes narrowed as he looked for some recognizable feature, some identifier of his organization. Someone this good had to have a name. That’s when he saw the silk pocket square in the man’s exquisitely tailored suit jacket, which swelled with every coarse breath. The square worn by those who served the Tailor. John’s eyes widened.

His Contact’s mouth spread in a stunning smile, eyes glinting impishly up at John. John smiled back despite himself, breathing hard.

“This complicates things,” John said.

“What does?” the contact asked, the tip of a pink tongue darting to lick the drop of blood welling on his bottom lip.

In half a heartbeat, John pressed down on that pair of soft, moist lips, tasting blood and spit and sweat. A sharp suck of air through the contact’s nostrils made his chest rise beneath John, and the pain from the point of the blade disappeared. The lips opened, and salty wet tongues slipped over one another. The hand still clutching his boot knife now cupped his contact’s bruised jaw.

The evening up to this point had been fast, one moment to the next, a series of seconds and fractions of seconds onward and forward, endlessly driving to the Contact. But now, when the two mouths separated, it was slow.

John licked his lips for the lingering taste of him and his contact bit his lip and grinned.

“I think we’re going to be late to the Objective,” he said.

John smiled back.


End file.
